THROUGH THE HAZE #51

Rolling nonstop down I-5, Fear & Loathing style, destination So. Cal. No bats, no lizards, or ether; just plenty of tunes, sticky skunk, propellant, and a baggie of Liberty Caps.

In my mid-twenties, waaaay back in those seventies, many of my generation approached life with the belief we were bulletproof and built to spill. So, when good friend and fellow Half Shell compadre JP suggested we embark upon an impromptu getaway to Southern California, part business, part mayhem, I did not need to be asked twice.

The following day I tossed seven days’ worth of warm weather clothes in my travel bag making sure to include my Marshall Tucker, Eat A Peach and Little Feat Columbus tees, ok’d a week of vacation time at Budget, then hit the bank for two hundred dollars’ worth of Traveler’s Cheques. Road trip on…

Mon January 22, 1979 8 A. M

We gassed up JP’s Saab, took the southbound I-5 exit and we were off on an eighteen hour, twelve-hundred-mile pilgrimage to the Golden State.

Besides drying out our Northwest soggy bones in the abundant sunshine, JP had set up a drop by in Carmel at the offices of Monterey Peninsula Artists with the intent gaining some traction for Half Shell Productions in our marketplace.

Over the next seven days we would set up camp in Los Angeles, more specifically Hollywood, and Bel Air, where we had been invited to drop in on Jean Luc Ponty’s keyboardist Allan Zavod’s palatial Bel Air for a day or so. From there we would make our way to the coast, specifically Carmel, before heading homeward.

It was our own homage to Fear in Loathing in Las Vegas but no swooping or screeching bats or lizards were encountered; nor were melting roadways or hallucinogenic properties, as mescaline or ether part were not part of our game plan.

We were loaded for bear, literally with an supply of greenery, specifically sticky indica, propellent, essential for endurance and making friends, enough dried liberty caps for a small party and, most important of all, well over fifty cassettes that covered all the bases from Hank Williams to Ornette Coleman, a few Grateful Dead boots and lots of quality rock. Just ten miles down the road, JP requested I put my rolling capabilities to work with the first of many high-grade smokable commodities. Once ready for inhalation I fed Dire Straits debut into the cassette player and, with my driver’s approval, turned volume level to 7.

Loaded for bear

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Twelve hours later we made our first stop—San Francisco. With the Fillmore West closed we searched the local newspaper, and JP was bummed to find he had missed the Dead perform at the Masonic Temple by one day. We then made a quick run by SF’s fantastic Tower Records store, reloaded our cassette supply, and hustled off to Hollywood.

With the highway wide open and my pilot driving an average of eighty-five mph we made LA shortly before midnight.

We headed up Santa Monica Blvd and, with luck in our corner, we booked into the world-famous Tropicana for three nights, making it headquarters for our activities while in town. In the laurels of Hollywood history The Tropicana was known as the flophouse choice for hookers, pimps, groupies, runaways, drug dealers, and assorted burnouts. It was also renown for being THE choice for bands at every level of success whenever they played or recorded in town.

Welcome to the Tropicana

The price was right--$29.95 per night, colored TV and even a kidney shaped pool we were warned not to swim in (chaise lounges on its bottom along with used, discarded syringes there on the bottom). Foremost we were attracted by its rock n roll legacy which had its roots in the 60’s. A very small sample list of its clientele/residence featured Warren Zevon, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, who legend has it would drink himself into a stupor nightly at The Palms then weave his way precariously back to his room dodging the busy Santa Monica Blvd traffic. The Beach Boys, Zep, Van Morrison, Cheap Trick, Van Halen and Sly Stone.

“Under the Trop’s jungle-like foliage there were orgies, murders, suicides, ODs, love triangles, marriages and drunken brawls on a daily basis,” wrote underworld LA chronicler Iris Berry in her book Tales from the Tropicana Motel.

This was the perfect spot to compliment the adventure we were undertaking…

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During the afternoon and evening of our December Ponty show, JP had struck up a warm, casual friendship with the band’s keyboardist Allan Zavod who offered us a open invitation to spend an evening or two in his palatial estate far up in the windy canyons of Bel Air.

Around noon the next day JP called Zavod’ s residence to find he had been delayed in New York, but urged us for us to head to Belair early evening and plan to stay for a day or so.

Around 7 PM we took a left at the Troubadour, entering Beverly Hills on our way towards the windy canyons of Bel Air.

We navigated the corkscrew two lane road for several miles viewing an endless backdrop of lush dark green vegetation which filled the steep canyons on the left side of the roadway. The further we drove the more extravagant the homes became until we came to, if memory serves correctly, 1580 Stone Canyon Road.

Having grown up in a modest mill town this grandeur made me feel I was somewhat out of my league. JP picked up on my obvious discomfort and as he rang the front doorbell, I was reminded “this is Hollywood, my friend. Time to play act we’re truly two cool dudes.”

In blue jeans, my Waiting for Columbus t shirt and long floppy-laced tennis shoes I truly had my work cut out for me.

We were greeted by Trish, Zavod’ s lady, who filled us in Allan was still in NY working overtime in the studio finishing overdubs and he would be home midday the next day, and to make ourselves at home.

Trish, a daytime soaps actress, introduced her friend, blonde-haired, congenial Sparky, a bit role performer in several current television dramas. Sparky eyed JP’s travel bag and when we introduced ourselves to be from Washington and, with a very chummy grin inquired “did you bring any mushrooms?” This was her lucky night…

I had little in common with our hostesses and their lavish L A life styles and most of the next hour was spent listening more than bringing much to the table.

Around 9 P.M. what Sparky termed ‘California Cornflakes” were laid upon the kitchen’s glass countertop and extracurricular activities commenced.

Sparky chopped vigorously, then inhaled, a thick rail approximately a quarter-foot long.

She dropped her tightly-rolled Franklin, jumped atop the glass-topped coffee table and began singing White Line Fever at the top of her lungs. After hopping back down, she excused herself and headed into a back room where she undertook a highly vociferous phone conversation which lasted well past midnight.

Small talk inspired by those cornflakes ensued with Trish carrying the majority of the banter. I asked about the one lone expansive ten-foot-high barricade we noticed on our drive located at one particularly precarious curve a short distance from their home.

She chuckled, “George had that put up for Richie (Ringo Starr) when he comes to visit with Kieth Moon.” When she noticed our glance of confusion she clarified, “Did I not mention that George Harrison is our next-door neighbor?”

Holy crapola…

She went on to say George rarely occupied his mansion and seemed to be a very private individual with whom she and Allen had exchanged little more than an occasional friendly wave in passing.

The witching hour was well behind us when Sparky returned. Immediately utilizing her charm on JP, she inquired ever so sweetly if he was willing to share some shrooms.

Still frazzled from the long trip, this was the perfect time to excuse myself from the festivities and call it a night. The boisterous singing, giggling and extracurricular chicanery was still going full bore when, finally around 3 A.M. I managed to fall asleep.

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It was well after noon before any signs of life could be detected taking place upstairs in the kitchen.

After consuming scrambled eggs and an abundance of stiff coffee we headed back to the Trop. JP noticed Belair did not seem to be my game and was cool I was more comfortable here—hanging with those runaways, drunkards and burnouts who made the Hollywood Strip their home.

Zavod was due home shortly and JP had the green light to spend a day or two back up there in California Cornflake paradise. I would be fine going solo until it was time to head to Carmel.

Still struggling to reclaim optimum vitality I decided it was time to head to the pool, and take advantage of this warm January sunshine as I rearranged my disheveled constitution. Hanging out at the Tropicana hinted at potential adventure before my stay was up. Little did I know just how quickly it was about to arrive…

***** ***** ***** ***** ******

After showering I grabbed a tattered semi-clean towel and my book and headed off to the pool bent on converting white flesh to brown.

Suddenly a well-worn oversized gray van wheeled into the lot and two long-haired looking rock-types dudes hopped out. One headed towards the office, the other, looking slightly familiar moved slowly in my direction

He stopped, did a double take and smiled.

“Mike?” It took a second or two before recognizing that voice as Dave Maxwell, keyboard player for the James Cotton Blues Band.

David Maxwell

A week earlier I had spent consecutive evenings enjoying legendary harp player Cotton and his band while they lit up sold out shows back home at Buck’s Tavern. Following each show, JP and I had been invited to join a handful of regular’s post-show to hang with band members. Over those nights I had spent a great deal after hours with Cotton’s keyboardist, David Maxwell, the keyboardist who had previously played for the Nighthawks. Way into the wee hours we drank copious amounts of ale, ate pizza and he shared story after story of his years with both Nighthawks and Cotton. We parted with him handing me his business card, in case I ever visited the east coast.

“How about this one for fate? Our manager is in a bad way, running a 101 temperature in the back seat and we must be at the Whiskey in an hour and a half for sound check. We could sure use a sit in manager for the shows. You got anything going?”

The Whiskey? As in A Go-Go?

Save me a seat in that van. Its gonna be a real special night… mdnav